


The Canterbury Tales: The Man of Law's Third Tale

by Lewdsmokesoldier



Series: Poll Stories [9]
Category: Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer
Genre: (Not really but close), F/F, F/M, Free Use, Gangbang, Iambic Pentameter, M/M, Middle English, Multi, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, degradation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25139293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lewdsmokesoldier/pseuds/Lewdsmokesoldier
Summary: The Squire, the Summoner, and Alisoun, the Wife of Bath, have all shared unexpectedly lurid stories on Cleopatra’s sexual slavery at the hands of Octavian Augustus, a captured princess being broken by a monster before her knight could rescue her, and a knight lovingly impregnating a fairy queen, respectively. But now it falls to the Man of Law to tell a story, and he shall not disappoint. His will be a tale of travel and tribulations and of degradation and debasement, at the behest of a most noble penance for mankind.
Series: Poll Stories [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820980
Kudos: 5





	The Canterbury Tales: The Man of Law's Third Tale

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my [Poll One-Shot Stories work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747037?view_full_work=true), and has been posted separately for ease of navigation and tagging.

Alisoun allayed the anxious pilgrim,

Full fearful her fable ended not trim,

Ascendant arose the Man of Law,

Beaming bright before the train he then saw.

“A sincerely scintillating story,

Humbling Homer, if beheld it thus he,

Triumphant tales tax not this man’s ears.

Now, I rightly request holding your tears,

For though her tale tranquil did still end,

I extoll expressly one pledge to mend,

How one woman, the most worthy and wise,

Took it on herself to heal and baptize,

Lands deemed distant and familiar,

And none who sought succor were scorned by her.

An anchoress, beautiful and bereft,

Rigidly resolved that the world she left,

Would not intrude or interrupt prayer,

And thus in her solitude sheltered there,

For all our sakes did she sigh and she swoon,

But one night, near the full course of the moon,

She beheld a vision most fair and free,

Ordering her unto the world to see,

And so did Agatha, anchoress fair,

Mix meditation on her cross to bear,

With sincere security in her cause,

And set out to overcome the world’s flaws.

Like Constance, she encounters trials grave,

Tribulations show truth in her deeds deemed brave.”

“Dear Sergeant at Law, smother my own fear,

Assure me this flatters the Church so dear.”

Said the Prioress, preening jewels so bright,

Casting colors of many tones of light,

Accent exercised, expecting respect,

Of London French, that most proud dialect,

She practiced it as preached, that is, in debt,

To teachers poor and to Paris no threat.

“The Church, cherished cleric, needs no defense,

God’s own word erects its exalted fence.

But if my loquacious language distracts,

Your certifiably charitable acts,

Surely secure your sojourn in its grace.

Lest my languid locomotion’s slow pace,

Adjourn our quorum and cast aspersion,

I tell my tale of Agatha the nun.”

Thus answered the lawyer, patient and calm,

Continuing to recount his own psalm.

The Prioress’s proffered chin, purporting

Knowledge, recognition still yet thwarting.

All arose, aspiring to here attend,

The Sergeant’s story wherever it wend.

The Franklin, his dear friend, rapt at his side

But the Clerk looked on for his time to bide.

Unimpressed by unknowing words there said,

And Agatha’s tale he did here dread.

* * *

She had not expected the support of her sisters in faith, but their reluctance to join her did not trouble her overmuch. She had a purpose to embark upon, empowered by her convictions, and nothing would stop her from undertaking the quest that her principles demanded.

Saint Agatha was an anchoress, and she had turned her back upon a sinful world happily and willingly. Her inward appraisal, within the walls of her monastery cell, served not only to purify her mind in her asceticism, but to draw her closer to the unknowing wonder of God that was forever obstructed by the material world, a division born of the first grand betrayal.

True joy lay in eternal life, in turning her eyes upward to Heaven and awaiting the messages that could only be transmitted through the deepest, most focused prayer. 

And in the fervor of her concentration, unknown to all save herself within the cold-stoned chamber that had been designed to be her future home, she beheld her truth. It came not from the Eucharist or the Mass or the altar through the hagioscope, but from the window to the world she had declared herself divorced from. As the moonlight beamed through the cloth that divided her from the crude materiality of man, she was made to understand her place on God’s good earth.

She heard no distinct words, and beheld no particular shapes. A flash of burnished silver glow, a sense of peace, and a whispering echo of comfort were all that she would be able to recall, but her living sainthood permitted her a solemn understanding of her role in God’s plan for the redemption of humankind.

Saint Agatha was dead to the world, but that did not mean that she could not carry out some small part of the Passion into her own person. Charitable acts came in many forms, and mortification relied not on pain, but on the transfer of burden. She had been called, and she had to answer the summon to redemption.

Bundled in her habit and accompanied only by an empty cloth sack, Saint Agatha set out from her cloister, from the tomb that had been made by her own wish to hold her till her bones were consecrated by the grace of Heaven.

She was still a Saint, but for the purposes of her own tribute to the Passion of her Lord’s own Son, she would be known only as Agatha. All would have a place by her side, around and of her, taking whatever small steps they could to the salvation of their souls, though they would not know it.

It was this certainty that drew her to the road entering Dover. It had been a tiresome journey on foot, through the rain and mud, but her faith had carried her forward. No matter how drenched her hair became, it continued to glow golden, and the rest of her person held up the same snowy purity of appearance. The few travelers she had passed knew her as a nun, but would have focused more on her astonishingly striking beauty. Her form was hidden by her habit, but still they stared at her as she passed, though she gave them not a glance. Her duty required travel, and she would only let herself be distracted when she reached her first goal.

She had expected to reach the square, to make her announcement publicly. To proclaim to the world that some minute salvation had come, embodied in her, for them to know and celebrate. But she did not have that chance. As she passed through the streets, a hoot rang out to her from the pathway between two buildings, and her focus wavered enough for her to look at its source.

The man who had made the noise was handsome, in his own way. In spite of his broken nose and scraggly-stubbled chin, he had an energy to his eyes that told her he was not too far fallen into the sins of inaction and despair, and a girth to his shoulders and arms that communicated his caretaking of his form. When he saw her watching, he curled a finger towards her in welcome, and she glided forward silently between the buildings. 

“How much?”

It took her a moment to understand exactly what he was proposing. Though her journey to a nun’s life, and then that of an anchoress, had involved some measure of worldliness and experience with matters of joined personhood, she did not fully grasp his query until he waggled his eyebrows and let his tongue run up and across his lips.

Ah. He had mistaken her for a _fille de joie,_ a woman whose actions were sometimes party to the Church’s supervision. Southwark had hosted such institutions of pleasure, nominally serviced by the Bishopric of Winchester, but she had never heard of a nun engaging in such actions. Perhaps he did not believe that she was a nun.

But then again, Agatha was no ordinary nun, or even given the truth that she was an anchoress. She was a living saint, charged with holy duty, and her place in the world demanded flexibility of purpose within her faith’s hierarchy. She would not ask for payment, when redemption was both her charge and currency. And so when she spoke, it was softly and warmly, a reassuring smile on her pale, bright features, framed by her golden hair.

“As much or as little as your heart entreats you, my son.” 

He gave her a toothy grin, reaching out to grab her by the shoulder and starting to push down. She allowed her knees to falter and then buckle, the dirt of the alley brushing against the fabric covering them. He ignored his tunic, instead fumbling with the best holding up his braie, pulling it down and leaving the rest of him exposed. 

Agatha had not beheld a man nakedness in many, many years, but the sight of a thick, half-erect length crowned by a wider head and supported by a pair of swaying testicles was unforgettable. She glanced upwards, past his arm as it extended to grasp her shoulder, and watched him nod for her to continue.

“No more o’ th’ ‘son’ business, though, if ye get me. Now be a good girl and suck.”

In lieu of speaking, Agatha elected to follow his wishes and dipped her head forward, flicking her tongue out to drag along his shaft. Or...perhaps she would be better served by calling it what it was. A cock.

Vulgar, certainly, but she would be doing much worse before her pilgrimage of penitence was done. And so she stayed on her knees and went at work licking the cock of a man whose name she did not know, whose existence she had had no cause to acknowledge before he had called her into an alleyway under the presumption that she was a whore. He was correct, in a fashion, for she would be much more and much worse in service of her faith.

For a laborer, or at least a man of lower status, his cock was certainly clean enough, though the tang of salt stayed on her tongue and that...bizarrely alluring alchemy of sweat and musk that gave off the scent of interest and anticipation and filled her senses with the raw, overpowering need to erupt. One of her hands came up to cradle his testes, caressing them with dainty fingers that hadn’t known a day’s work in decades, soft and delicate against his hanging, heavy sack. She paid service to his shaft, and when she opened her mouth to let it slip through her lips, the full weight of his cockhead settled on her tongue, pressing it down while she looked up at him with sky-blue eyes to swallow it down with the reverence due to her work.

He had other plans, however.

“Ye, ye, I’m liking th’ way ye work my stones n’ cock, but there’s just summat missin’ ‘bout all this...so if’n ye’ll excuse me, I’ll jus’ be takin’ over.”

He moved his hands, one resting on the top of her head, the other gripping around the back, and shoved forward, burying his whole length between her lips until the tip nudged the top of her throat, his sack smacking her chin. She croaked, but did not struggle and did not shudder, tongue remaining placid and comfortingly still to pillow the cock now thrusting in and out of her mouth. She had fasted and sunk into the deepest meditation, and this would not unbalance her.

Her “customer”, for perhaps that was what he was to her, lay into her face with vigor and rough, powerful thrusts, heedless of any discomfort in her jaw or aching on her chin that she might have protested at, were she of lesser discipline. He grabbed her hair through her habit’s cloth and jabbed in and out, testicles audibly striking her with wet _smacks_ , matched only by his grunts and her soft, encouraging mewling around his intruding shaft.

“Unf, lick it, whore. Lick my stones while I plough yer face, and don’t ye dare try’n pull away.” 

Agatha obeyed. She had no way to escape him, anyway, but she would not have even if such an avenue had been available. Her tongue flicked out to lap at his testicles when he bottomed out, wriggling along the bottom of his length when he pulled back as her teeth dragged along the skin, applying the most delicate bit of pressure and friction. Her face was warm, and her breath whistled through her nostrils.

But she did not fight, and she did not waver. She looked up at him with forgiving, gentle gaze, the watering in her eyes beholden only to her body’s failings. Her look was pleading, but not for him to slow down or let up. Instead, she asked only for more, more aggression and punishment and resolve to unburden himself of the sins that she had seen fit for herself to carry.

Something in her eyes must have set him off, because he thrust forward powerfully once, twice, and then three times, and on the fourth he stammered and groaned. 

“Here it comes, harlot!”

His seed blasted forth, splattering her throat with warm, sticky fluid, shooting down her gullet to her belly and filling her cheeks as he withdrew. One hand shifted from her crêpe-covered coif to grab his spit-shined cock, and his testes twitched as he stroked himself and painted her face with more heavy, salty ropes of his eruption. It scattered across her forehead and brow, spraying onto her nose and lips and dripping down to the black fabric of her habit proper. A final spurt landed directly on her clothing, and at last he was spent, leaving her a soaked, covered mess.

“Ah...that’s a good ‘un. Nicely done.”

“Blessings upon you.” She spoke through cream-coated lips, tender and warm and smiling through the layer on her face. 

“Yer strange, fer a whore. But ye were well worth it.” A tiny metallic object bounced against her head, and rolled along the dirt between his feet. She could not tell its value, but it mattered little: she reached forward and slipped it into her bag. Agatha would not ask for payment, but she would accept whatever farthings or pittance the generosity of strangers imparted to her. It was the least she could do, given the service to their souls she was undertaking.

“Oi! What’s the ruckus over here?”

The new voice was rougher, and the man that stepped into view in the alleyway was harsher to behold. His beard was scraggled and unkempt, his shoulders even wider to match the tree trunks of his legs, and he was even taller than the one who’d made use of her mouth. When he beheld the two of them—her covered in seed, the other man with his pants around his ankles, he gave them both a gap-toothed grin and stepped even closer.

“Havin’ fun, I hope? Yer certainly makin’ yer fair share o’ noise!”

“Naw, jus’ lettin’ off a bit. Ye want sum? She don’ charge much.”

“I don’ pay fer me pussy, lad.”

“I require no payment, but I will accept any that you offer, good sir.”

“Sir!” He guffawed, reaching down to pull her up while the man who’d enjoyed her face shuffled to the side, out of the way. “Hear that, lad? She call’d me ‘sir’, like a right ‘n proper lady. I’ll ‘sir’ ye!”

His hands, rough and calloused, spun her towards the wall, bending her forward with her face against the wood and her rear stuck out, framed through the cloth of her habit. One set of fingers sunk into her backside, carelessly appraising her through her clothing, running along her waist and hips.

“Pretty good...” 

He gave her a loud, full-force _slap,_ the sting echoing through her body and throughout the alleyway, but she did not wince and did not protest when his fingers dug into the fabric and pulled, tearing away the conjoined lower halves of her tunic, through to the underskirt and away, leaving two distinct sheets of fabric to split apart like torn trousers and fall against her legs, exposing her for both of them to see.

Agatha did not have an excellent understanding of the appeal of her backside, but by how both observers gasped, the one directly behind her reaching out to grope and squeeze harshly on the soft, supple skin of her buttocks, she had some idea as to how much others would enjoy it. 

And she welcomed the attention. She would need all of it and more, should she redeem fallen mankind through the mortification of her flesh. Her latest penitent sinner, to grant him a generous title, certainly seemed eager to partake of her beneficence.

“Well, I’ll be...yer worth it, after all.” He muttered, slightly awed, even as he fished out his cock from behind her where she couldn’t see, a hand on the back of her head shoving her harder against the wall. The thick, girthy head of his shaft pressed between her lower lips, the fingers on her rear digging in deeper to steady himself, and he pushed forward with a grunt and a muttered curse as she was spread around his intruding shaft, the warm wetness of her slit welcoming him with a yielding glide.

“Tightest cunt ‘ve ever…’ell.” He slid himself in more, the width of his cock stretching her inner walls as he went, grinding along with his probing sliding motion. “Lord, I’ve yet ta meet some ‘un quite like this…”

“Take not the Lord’s name in vain.” She murmured into the wood, teeth and lips dragging along the planks as he bottomed out, his testicles pressing against the sensitive hood of her slit while the tip of his manhood dug as deep as it would go. His scratchy woolen tunic brushed against her rear, and she felt the power of him looming over her from behind.

Her partner laughed, but if he had any biting remark he kept it to himself, choosing to focus his energy on laying into her hard and fast, pounding her with all the considerable force his body would permit him to employ. His hips jutted forward and back, even stronger than the might she’d felt exerted on her when servicing the third party present with her mouth, his hand flying from side to side to alternatively slap, grip, and grope her rear. A tingling spot of soreness lay marked on her right buttock, and Agatha knew that she’d have a hand mark there before her time with him was done.

But Agatha did not protest. She did not cringe, and she did not wither from his exertions or shrink from the effort being pushed onto her. Her duty called her to higher things, and taxed her more than mere material efforts could exhaust.

So when he slapped her rear and swore at her and spat on the ground and slid his dick in and out of her cunt, calling her a “whore” and a “slut” and questioning her self-worth and life choices, she did not find cause to doubt herself. Not even the accompanying jeers from the man she’d sucked off brought her low, and in the face of her resolve, their insults trailed off and faded.

“She...she really isn’t miffed by this, is she?”

“‘Ell if I know, lad. But I’m ‘bout to let loose, so shaddup so I can blow.” She felt the truth of his words as certainly as she could feel the girth of his cock pounding away at her, and when his swinging, hefty testicles began to tense and twitch along with the pulsing of his length, she knew he was ready.

“Be blessed.” She managed to speak, tranquil in spite of the fact that he was forcing her face against the wall of a house, though he’d long since moved those fingers away to grab her backside and waist with both hands, all the better to plough her with. If he heard her, he didn’t respond, and the rapid flurry of his pounding gave way for long, brutal grinding motions as the heat began to blossom from within her, signalling that he had reached his peak. 

With every burst of hot cream, he imparted his guilt to her, shouldering the burden of his unknown sorrow into her person in the form of his flood of seed. He painted her womb white, filling her with all the material results of his climax that he could bring to bear. And then she felt it: a twinge of pleasure, the tiniest fragment in the glass she had erected between herself and the fallen world, the portal to her pilgrimage and their salvation. 

Agatha did not come undone, and she rebounded from her waver by holding herself steady as he spanked her one final time, watching her rear bounce and wobble, before withdrawing to waste more of his seed on the dirt. But in the back of her mind, a seed had been planted. Not of doubt, but of potential.

If her benefaction was built upon bliss, was there not some logic to seeking it for herself? No, no, that could not be. Her journey was selfless and had its foundation upon the original sacrifice for mankind, and she would not be so selfish as to seek something of it for herself.

“Ye up for ‘nother round wi’ ‘er, lad?” The man who had just emptied his sack into her spoke without acknowledging her presence or the manner she’d enabled him to shed some of his worldly pain. “I needa tick, but won’t be long.”

“Naw, ‘m spent. But we can pass her on to the res’...I know a coupla folks that’d make good use o’ her, and the sailors always need summat to do.”

Agatha beheld their words and smiled, standing on wobbling legs. She would willing be passed around by everyone in Dover if it brought them one step closer to the revelations that would immortalize the kingdom of God.

* * *

As it happened, Agatha did not need to be “passed around”. 

Once she was dragged to the docks—rather unnecessarily, given that she would have walked there of her own volition if the men holding her had been willing to let go—and paraded before the fishmongers and sailors, it wasn’t long before three of them grabbed at her with needy, hungry hands, pulling what little remained of her habit from her form, exposing the milky, snowy glow of her wide hips, swaying breasts, and the golden hair both on her head and between her legs. It wasn’t long before they were divesting themselves of what they needed to expose their manhoods. 

One was waved in her face, testes tapping her cheek, until she took it between her lips; another forced its way between her lower lips after a few missed thrusts by hoisting her onto the lap of the man it belonged to, her body parallel to him; and the third nudged between her buttocks, prodding at her tight, unyielding rear entrance.

Even in the life that Agatha had led before her cloister, she had never experimented with entertainments involving that particular hole. But even if she had been in a position to reject his advance, she certainly had no mind to refuse them, and her mouth was too occupied with sucking a cock to speak. Besides, if she was to exhaust the sin that she encountered, and furrow holiness in its wake, she would happily endure humiliations and degradations that paled in comparison to the infernal horrors awaiting those she did not save. She breathed deeply of the scent of all three, basking in the jeers, hoots, and catcalls from all the observers, and felt the length pushing insistently against her backdoor finally find purchase and slip inside with a flash of heat and discomfort that she refused to accept or acknowledge.

The cock in her mouth belonged to a sailor, of that she was certain: his member held a particular saltiness and virility that ventured from the alluring sweat she had first beheld, and instead tasted more sharply of the sea and sand, coarse and rough on her tongue, but she partook of it all the same, with a calm, steady gaze up into his drunken, bloodshot eyes and a welcoming wriggling of her tongue to encourage him to grab her long, flowing hair and pull it to rut into her face, jerking his cockhead to the back of her threat and leaving his sack bruising her chin each time he thrust forward.

The shaft stretching her womanhood belonged to a soldier. She caught glimpses of him when her stare wandered downwards, but the true tell was the steady, unwavering drilling he was giving her, pumping his hips up and down and grabbing her soft, squeezable thighs and waist to lift her on and off his shaft. He had a strength to his hold, but unlike the first two she’d encountered on her mission, he also had the training to restrain himself...and the girth to grind against her inner walls with the most delightful friction whenever the head of his cock pounded her womb.

The member deflowering her rear, however, could not be identified. He was a scrawnier man than most, perhaps a clerk or scholar who’d gotten drunk by the port, and he wasn’t as impressively endowed as the ones currently enjoying her other orifices, though his manhood was of respectable dimensions. If she had been limited by the tribulations of flesh, beholden to pain and suffering rather than her devotion to her convictions and her belief in God’s plan, then she would have been grateful that he taxed her virgin backside less than many of his brethren might have. But she instead only welcomed the nudging and clumsy pushing within her rear, the probing of his shaft within her depths as his testicles rested on her buttocks, haphazardly sliding in and out as far as his length and her pillowing hindquarters would permit.

All three moved in and around Agatha, utterly out of tandem and unsteady in their rhythm. Some moments, all three cocks were in her at once, stuffing her full of their meaty, heaving thickness, and sometimes one or two were withdrawn while the third mistimed his thrust and buried himself in her snug, warmly accommodating holes. Perhaps they expected her to be overwhelmed, but even stuff as she was, she would not break, and she would not waver from her task.

The man in her mouth, perhaps driven by her caressing gaze and the softness of her tongue and lips, came first, spewing his hot load down her throat before withdrawing to scatter his seed across her hair and features, still coated from the fruits of her first oral service. The one in her rear was next, driven to his limit by the snug gripping of her hole and his own lacking stamina, emptying himself into her rear and firing the rest of his peak onto her back and buttocks. The one in her cunt lasted the longest, but eventually he, too, vented his exertions within her womb in a rush of cream that left her filled with the volume of his warmth, even after he’d extracted himself, stood, and walked away. None of the three had paid her, but that was their wont.

When the next round of men got into position—one in each of her holes, and two more grasped and thrusting in both her hands—Agatha realized that, however many men she serviced her in Dover, her task would require her to travel to the continent...and perhaps even beyond. 

But she would not be afraid. Her cause was just, and in the service of the Church. God would not discourage her from her project in emulation of the truest Passion, even as she was filled and covered with seed, left overflowing and coated in the final threshold of their orgasms before being dumped to the docks, more cream and coins raining down on her from above.

* * *

The Man of Law left his legend to sit,

Weary of wagging his tongue in a fit,

And beheld the brooding of the three Priests,

The Chaplain and Prioress with brows creased.

Seeing such surliness, answers he sought,

So he spoke to give sound to his thought.

“What woes you, wise clergy, to hold such frowns?

Are you not pleased by portraits of saint’s rounds?

Surely mine truest tale trifles you not?

Similar to the trials Constance sought!”

The Nun’s Priest, Chaplain to the Prioress,

Would not settle for any surety less.

“I take trouble with your words, wicked louse,

Impugn not the heirs of Saint Peter’s house!

The Roman Church gives no cause for slander,

And harbors no nun who would philander.”

“Indeed,” spake the next Priest, “and woe to you,”

“For ringing these false rumors to be true.”

“For shame,” quoth the second such holy man,

“To escape ire, t’would be best if you ran.”

“Take your ‘tales’ and ‘truths’, stabbed into your taint,”

Shrieked the third, “We spit on your slutty ‘saint’!”

“Friends, fellows, faithful all who walk this road,

Seek not bloodshed, for the sake of the Rood!

If nothing else, heed my call against harm,

Hurt and death leaves naught but old weeping marms.”

Cautioned the Parson, that virtuous soul,

From his worldly words, the fear that did toll,

Found cause to collapse and there dissipate,

“Brash ribaldry be not worthy of hate,

Lest we forget the words spoken here first,

For drunk Miller or sour Clerk be worst.”

At this, the clergy found cause to nod assent, 

Heedless of the glares that their way then went.

“Pardon me, sir Sergeant,” then spake the Knight,

“Agatha sailed by ship to make her flight,

How shall we be ken to the words she heard,

Tongues diverse and foreign as cry of bird?”

“Surely, my Man of Law has a fine plan,

To make languages known to every man.

Perhaps, I then pray, he might here translate,

Words common as those we happily prate?”

Thus asked the Franklin, companion of law,

To the Sergeant, all their gazes did draw.

“Indeed I will, friend Franklin, my Pylades,

Now, listen well, if you all will thus please.

Agatha’s quest takes her to lands distant,

Where tongues unknown had centuries to plant.

Arabic, Spanish, French and many more,

Rendered into English here, from far yore.

Now I speak of her journey ‘cross the sea,

To Hispania, where she was made free.”

* * *

“No, that is not what I mean. I am talking about the _means_ here…”

“Perhaps I am missing something, then. Did you _not_ intend to imply that such an event is an eventuality?”

Agatha listened to the conversation being held above and on either side of her. She wasn’t party to it, and if not for the occasional grunt or stutter, she would have no cause to believe that it was anything other than a typical conversation.

Well, besides the fact that she was pilloried with her hands by her head, legs spread and completely naked while one man availed himself of her mouth and lips, one hand on the wood locking her hands and neck in place, while the other pounded away at her womanhood from behind, holding onto her waist and rear with one set of fingers. Both men used the other hand available to them to gesticulate, still deep in discussion, sliding their shafts in and out of her mouth and cunt like she wasn’t even there.

Which was by her design, of course. That was the point of being set up outside the cathedral square of the University of Salamanca, to be used and to impart her grace to as many students, teachers, passerby, or others who saw a nubile nun open and available for their use, with no capacity to resist or escape and no desire to do so. No receptacle for payment was visible, so those who had a mind to pay her simply dropped their currency on the ground as they left: if someone saw it and stole away her hard-won “earnings”, she couldn’t do anything to stop them. But Agatha wouldn’t have tried even if she could, for greed and envy unlocked the doors she had erected in the fortress of her soul against temptation, and she would not fall prey to them. She gratefully accepted the income she was given, seeing it as a mark of how deeply her benediction had touched their spirit and not seeking to offend any visitor, but she never asked for money.

After being enjoyed by all the men at the docks of Dover, she’d been carted onto a ship across the channel, being stuffed and pumped full of seed all the while, and had somehow wound up here after some train of intercourse had carried her from the coast further inland within Castille.

Now she was being speared at both ends like meat on a spit, by two philosophers who would not stop arguing in Latin even as they stretched her cunt and forced her mouth open wide on the girths of their cocks. They laid into her with a determined, measured pace, distracted by their debate, a far cry from the throat, ass, and slit-pounding abuse she had been subjected to on the ship.

And they did not stop talking, even as their testicles smacked the hood of her cunt and the furrow of her chin, their doublets impeccable and their composure nearly as pristine as her own.

“Yes, it is not a problem now, but it could be. The serfs have already gained greater power in England, after that nasty business with the affliction…”

 _Slam slam slam_ , went their bodies against her, reverberating throughout her form and leaving the stops shuddering as they sped up.

“Ah, true, and the whole situation with their ‘landed Parliament’ and their ‘Magna Carta’, who knows where they’ll go...”

 _Glrk glrk glrk_ went her throat around the intruding cock, though not out of instinct. She could restrain her gagging when she willed it, but many of those who had elected to take part in her own unique Mass prefered when she struggled. Perhaps giving off an illusion of frailty served to motivate their own salvation, and the undulations of weakness empowered their pleasure.

“No, that just secures the rights of nobility and the Church, as was intended. It does not advance my theory.”

“So what would, then? What would do that _here_?” 

“Well, a larger-scale uprising, or a reaction should those opposed to the King’s power find sway, and then are reversed against. The English and the French experienced them, not too long ago...now attempt to conjure the image of one even bigger, more organized, intended to reclaim what they have been convinced is rightfully theirs…”

 _Whump whump whump_ went her backside, shuddering and shaking from the impact of the one behind her heaving his cock in and out of her cunt. She’d lost track of which side held which position in this argument, but that was secondary to her true purpose, anyway.

“A dreadful thought indeed! Thankfully, the Church and the Crown has taught them their place. Unless both fall, they shall be content with their lot...and if the two such institutions collapse, then we have far worse problems indeed.”

“Hey!” Someone called out from in front of Agatha, on the other side of the main pounding her face. She caught a faint glimpse of the line that had grown, and knew that a similar queue was building behind her, if the muttering and grumbling was any indication. “We are still waiting for our proper turns!”

“Perhaps we should discuss the risks of this...laborer revolution another time, then?”

“Oh, that is just Fernando, one of my students. A fine manuscript copier...though perhaps not the most attentive Castilian Catholic.”

“Ah, not everyone can balance intellect with faith, my colleague. But for his sake and in the interests of the others, yes, perhaps we should continue this another time. Are you ready?”

“ _Carpe diem!_ ”

“Ahaha, indeed!”

Both men shook hands above Agatha, utterly ignoring her presence and personhood, and after another rapid-fire flurry of thrusts and pounding, she was left flooded with their loads. Their sacks tensed against her chin and slit, and more hot cream joined the loads from others she had serviced that were already flooding her insides. Their seed overflowed from her mouth to bubble out from her nostrils, and she was left leaking from both ends when they pulled away, shot a few more spurts onto her face and buttocks, and then slipped their leggings back on and departed, still in conversation.

The next pair stepped up, younger and more intensely focused on using her instead of carrying on a discussion with their counterpart. The cocks that shoved into her mouth and spread apart her slit were thicker, their heavy testes more tense with virility, and then went at her with raw, brutal gusto.

* * *

From Salamanca, Agatha journeyed across the Pyrenees, in the company of a caravan of Basque merchants. They employed her as their cock-warmer, sheltering their bodies from the cold of the peaks by burying themselves in her tight, hot holes whenever they pleased, letting loose their grievances by roughly using her and coating her with their climaxes, and finally let her free in a port town by the Rhône.

The men in Marseille were strange. Many of them were more fascinated by watching her than by actually partaking of her body, and it wasn’t long before an enterprising nobleman had elected to make a sport of watching her dance. She shook her breasts for the joy of the crowd, doing what she could to show off. She squeezed her thighs and kicked her feet up; she swiveled her hips and undulated her belly; she blew kisses and sent winks and hungry looks at her audience; and she spread her buttocks and legs to expose her holes, slapping her rear till it jiggled and shook while they hooted and cheered and left currency for her to claim as she departed. If she remembered to get it, at least, or was given the chance to do so.

Of course, many times, those dances ended with her being dragged off to some rich fellow’s home to be wrapped around his cock for the night until she was filled and coated with cream. Usually with the connivance of his wife, if he had one, as she passed time with someone else who better captured her affections, and when the man she was unhappily married to was bored of using his maids and female servants to milk his cock.

Just as often, of course, she was shared by a party of Frenchmen. The wealthier ones made it an art, calling in musicians to set the scene as they took turns stuffing her full while those on leave gossiped and and sipped aged vintage. The poorer ones treated her just as harshly as she’d come to expect, tossing her about, rubbing their cocks all over her body, coating and painting her white. They left her face-down in the dirt, drenched and degraded, when they were done. Until the next time came for her to dance for someone’s pleasure.

* * *

A representative from one of the foreign nations to the south, across the sea, attended one of her shows, and offered her a place of honor in the company of his lord. Agatha accepted, of course, and enjoyed a luxurious trip towards the desert lands. 

For once, she was left utterly alone during the journey. The emissary insisted that she was for his master, and him alone, and the solitude gave her time to think.

How many people had she blessed so far? Hundreds, thousands? How many more? How many more souls would she save through her person, if her vision was to be proven as true as she knew it to be? Castigation always followed prophets, and doubt assailed even the steadiest souls. Agatha could not lose sight of her goal, in spite of the growing ease with which she found herself able to justify greater and greater depravations in service of her pilgrimage. Her eternal servitude would find its reward, but she would not be motivated by selfishness.

These thoughts stayed with her as she stepped onto the shores of the city of Tunis, and was led to the palace of the Hasfid sultan. He was a kindlier man than most she had seen, his graying beard elegantly groomed and his copper-colored skin swathed in rich fabric, and he spoke to her with measured, patient empathy, listening to her communicate her story and asking questions when appropriate. 

One thing led to another, and she was happy to lay back on his silks and be covered by him, feeling him trail kisses up her form while she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper inside, warm and snug, holding him close as he rocked his hips to slip himself in and out. She clutched him fast, smiling and murmuring all the while, until he spilled his seed within her and left her feeling relaxed and warm on the carpet, pale and delicate beneath his darker, bulkier body.

Agatha had stayed with him for some time, but his affection had waned before long, especially once he’d become acquainted with a sensitive and shy young man with richly umber-brown skin from further southwest, near the lands celebrated for their fabulous gold and salt mines. He’d started roaming the halls in the manner of the sultan’s women and mewling in pleasure when he retired to his master’s quarters, the ladyfolk muttering outside the room as their affections were neglected. The sultan always left the gorgeous young man bow-legged and dazed, dribbling fluid from the hole that he’d so recently found wrapped around his master’s cock. Except for the times when the fellow attended to his lord with his mouth, lips glazed with cream while he swooned and caught his breath. The other women, whether they were already swollen with the sultan’s children or desperately aching to be impregnated, glared at the interloper jealously whenever he openly displayed the fruits of their master’s attentions in the form of finer jewels, softer silks, and copiously exposed skin.

For her part, Agatha at least had a more active role than the rest of them. Sometimes, she was tasked with slurping out the seed the sultan had blasted into his bedfellow, by sucking and licking the young man’s freshly-ploughed back hole, her pink tongue leaving shimmering trails on the tight opening and the dark testicles beneath while she slurped away the oozing, thick white cream. And sometimes she swapped seed with him by kissing his climax-coated lips. When he was feeling inventive, the sultan lay into the other man from behind...while the receiver lay atop her and buried his length into her slit, sandwiched between his lord and the nun, using the force of being pounded to slam into her that much stronger until both men, one tan and strong, the other svelte and sable, flooded their respective holes. 

Agatha’s duty would not be serviced by becoming embroiled in harem bickering, and so she petitioned her master his leave to depart. He agreed, of course, and after a final, comforting episode on the same spot where he had first bedded her, ending with the same eruption of his load into her womb and his lips on hers, she boarded the next ship for Italy.

He was a man who had nearly everything he could ever want, and his interests waxed and waned with his moods, rather than his needs. He would likely tire of his new partner soon enough, and then the cycle would repeat. Agatha’s quest would be better served attending to those who were more susceptible to base, immediate vices, and she did not believe she would find them here.

* * *

Her travels took her across the continent, and she was never bereft of both service and the opportunity for supplication. No matter how many times her habit was torn from her person in pieces, discarded in confusion, or soiled beyond use, she always found another to wear until the time came to depart from it once again. Her attire continued to set her apart as a nun, but it did not take long for those she had ingratiated herself with to look upon her with entirely hungrier and more worldly eyes, even if her clothing survived their attentions to remind them of the holy woman she truly was.

In Venice, she had been openly prostituted by a brothel owner, made to attend to whomever would be willing to part with the fees he determined her to be worth. She was particularly surprised at how many clergymen came to accept the penance she provided with her rear, mouth, and womanhood, and most fled in fear and shame when they realized she was ordained, just as they were. But the bravest stayed, and swapped verse with her in the height of their private passions, sealed only by the seed they poured into and onto her. Her ass was in particularly high demand, too—a quirk of the Italians, no doubt—and her owner seemed to realize it, judging by the exorbitant prices he charged for access to that particular hole. When she departed at last, she shocked him by refusing the payment she had earned: advertising a price for entry forfeited her right to accept it.

Across Bohemia, she fell in with a convoy of soldiers bound for battle, frustrated by marches and missing their wives back at home, and was enjoyed by them all. The infantry hoarded her at first, for fear that their commanders would steal her away, and she was often made to kneel by the fire while the stroked themselves to completion atop her in a circle, blessing and baptizing her with the seed that heralded the cleansing of their souls. Then, the cavalrymen usually all rushed her at once, forcing a cock into each of her hands, one in her mouth, and one in her cunt and backside...until impatience forced them to move in pairs within those holes, too. Agatha was stretched tauter than ever before with eight cocks to pleasure, and still she endured and welcomed their attentions, secure that she was playing her part in a grander design. The double-stuffing led to even more voluminous floods on and inside her, covering and filling her with their warm, rich loads. By the time she was appropriated by the commanders to stroke and suck them below their meeting tables and writhe on their laps while they discussed strategy, everyone below them had had a chance to use her.

A village in Poland, along the Vistula and downriver of Płock—she never caught the name of the town—let Agatha stay in their windmill, the farmers emptying their loads into her when they got the opportunity to entertain themselves with the woman who’d taken up residence there. They let her wander freely so long as she was back in the building whenever she was needed...which was very, _very_ often. She spread her legs every time someone walked in, and the creaking of the machinery failed to disguise the moans that echoed from the tower when she attended to a laborer. More than a few times, when the lack of wind forced them to grind grain manually, they took turns with her, the one not pushing the mill relieving his tension by carrying and pounding into her with her back against the wall and her hands around his neck, her breasts swaying each time they thrust upward. Or they rolled with her in the hay and straw, using the yellow bedding to cushion her body while they heaved into her from above and left her oozing seed onto the chaff. Some nights, the young women of the village stole in, giving her careful, exploratory strokes and licks, trembling while they explored her body and squeezed her rear and chest, and she reciprocated with grinding movements against their touches, delicate fingers and tonguing inside their cunts, and sweet embraces when the fervor had died down and her female supplicants were left panting and sweaty. She never told their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers, or any of their other relations, family, or neighbors. Her love knew no bounds of status, wealth, or power, and she would extend that to her fellow daughters of Eve.

In Lithuania, she walked in the shadows of two game hunters, both gruff, war-weathered men, and found more cause to relax than she had before. They had little interest in her, their attentions directed towards each other as they spent their nights locking lips, sliding their cocks together, and making love on their furs by the fire while she watched and felt the warmth course through her core as she beheld their unions. Whenever one grunted and unloaded onto the soil as he was bent over and made to feel his partner’s sack nudge against his own from behind, or whenever the other hissed as his cream spilled onto his stomach while they were joined face-to-face, she was always there and watching. Unless, of course, they’d passed her off to a group of loggers, herdsmen, or fisherman for the night, in which case she’d be dragged away from their camp to be basted and blasted by drunk, rowdy men while her two guides stole away to relieve the day’s labors with each other’s holes and bodies. She kept their secret buried in her bosom, hidden away securely, though her mouth was usually too occupied sucking a cock or moaning as her lush, supple form was enjoyed for her to give it away.

The Muscovites made her a throne-warmer, her hours spent on her knees in service to the Grand Duke of Moscow, right there in front of the rest of his hall. He would hold meetings, feasts, and audiences while she knelt before him and suckled on his testicles, licked his shaft, and took the whole of his length down her throat, swallowing his seed while he bargained and boasted. He would celebrate with his warriors while she rode him, her buttocks jostling against his wide, fat belly every time he bottomed out, the consequence of a soldier’s musculature turning to soft stoutness after delegating combat to his subordinates. His equally thick cock spread her ass wide when he had the will to it, and he pulled her hair to guide her bouncing until he spewed in her rear. When he was feeling generous, he let his victorious battlers lay her out on the table, swilling wine and pork as they pounded her, leaving her covered in alcohol, meat, and their loads.

When her gaze turned towards the lands of the Golden Horde, the realm of the horse-riding archers and conquering Khans, she paused, but not out of fear. Agatha had shared the gift of her person, the article of her faith, with hundreds of thousands across the lands. But doubt had, however she repressed it, sprung up within her. Chasing a vision, she had journeyed farther than she had dared dream she could go, cloistered as she was as an anchoress, praying that she was following the right path. And still...still she did not feel the spark that told her her task was complete.

Had she been corrupted by her journey, falling prey to the same lack of discipline that she had set out to prove she possessed? Had she wavered in her commitment to acknowledging the Church’s supremacy in vanquishing the _mea culpa_ of mankind, though her task implied that the world was not yet ready for the events as laid out in eschatology? Had—and she was horrified to harbor the thought—had her travails served onto the hasten the spread of the sorrow she had tried to shoulder? Had she been insufficient, or, Heaven forbid, sufficient in the wrong direction?

Agatha had no way of knowing. The questions had lingered in her longer than she would have dared acknowledge. She had never wavered, never struggled, and never shrunk from the mortification she had set out to suffer, but suffered she had not. She had found joy in her good works, and that risked poisoning their purpose.

She looked over the plains, at the light of the sun in the cloudless sky that had guided her journey, at the wind that rustled the tall golden grasses before her. A distant waterfall roared, birds chirped, and in the distance, she could see the horned figure of an elk, tall and proud above the plants.

God had granted them, _all_ of them, man and beast and plant and element, this world, to suffer and die and mourn and fall to sin in, but also to nurture love and joy and hope and wonder. If her task had given some of them joy, had turned any mind to kindness when it might have lingered in bitterness, or reversed any despair into tranquility, then she had succeeded. That, in and of itself, was the charity she had been meant to spread, the weight she had been chosen to carry. The Lord would know the worth of her work.

Saint Agatha smiled and, for the first time since she had left her monastery, allowed herself to laugh. The horizon stretched in all directions, offering boundless countries to explore and people to meet, and the only question left was where she would go first.

* * *

The Man of Law lowered his head at last,

Bent and bowed and eyes directed downcast.

“Agatha, apotheosis of love,

In canonization, courting the dove,

Vanished into the lands of the far east,

Some speak that eventually passed a priest,

After more long travels, through lands of Danes,

Once returned to England, where she remains,

Burnished with benediction and God’s grace,

Buried ‘neath Canterbury, near the space,

For that good martyr we journey to seek,

Saint Thomas Becket, shield of all the meek,

In good company, that fair anchoress,

Saint Agatha, may our lives you bless!”

All rested in silence, shock and sorrow,

Till, lest no speech be made till the morrow,

The Plowman then spake, addressing all there,

“The lesson, if I may so boldly swear,

Is that within us all we hold salvation,

In works of good, fitting to our station,

We may not yet redeem all of mankind,

But some grace within may we still all find.”

And all then nodded, even the Churchmen,

Though not convinced that they were truly ken.

Quoth then the Host, judge of these pilgrims all,

“I, Harry Bailey, mark the order tall,

To follow such gen’rous morality,

With one warning against rascality.

Who will tell a tale of wary and woe?

Dissuading all those declared order’s foe?”

To each other all looked, and back to me,

Geoffrey Chaucer, who with long _Melibee,_

Avenged slighted _Sir Thopas_ incomplete,

And who still is of fine tales replete.

My mouth went wide, my lips began to part,

But the Host beat my speech with a rude start.

“Anyone but Chaucer, for returned not,

Is his right to speak, after the long rot,

Of _Melibee_ with proverbs and scripture,

Boethius would not praise him, be sure.

Besides, he has already told tales two,

And two more he gives on returning through.

So anyone, anyone, but him, please?”

With this plea, my insult I did then freeze.

Knowing the journey would be a true joy,

And promised two more stories to employ,

I held my own peace and listened there well,

Who next a Canterbury Tale would tell.


End file.
